GARIBALDI ON THE MARCH.
This is the Helper that Italy wanted
To free her from Fetters and Grave-clothes quite:
His is the great heart no dangers have daunted;
His is the true hand to finish the fight.
Way, for a man of the kingliest nature!
Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature!
His great deeds have crowned him;
His Heroes are round him;
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
To brave battle-music up goes the smoke-curtain;
A country arises all one to his call:
The sound of his trumpet is never uncertain;
He fights for his Cause till it conquer or fall.
His Chariot-wheels do not spin without biting;
And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing—
His Rifles and Guns—
Than their Politics pens;
Garibaldi, my Hero, best man of them all!
When he sailed up our River, the frank, hearty Seaman,
We saw how an English soul smiled from his face:
For Italy's Saviour we knew it was The man,
All hero, no matter what garb, or what place—
And we prayed he might have one more grip that was glorious!
Prophesied he should be Leader victorious
Of Italy, free
From the Alps to the sea;
Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race.
Fierce out of torment his fighters have risen,
Shouting from hell, where they tortured them dumb;
Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison,
Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come,
With mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping,
With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping;
The flying Foe feels,
When they're close at his heels,
That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom.
Not only living! his dead men are fighting
For him! thus with few he can scare the great host:
For each one they see an Unseen Foe is smiting;
Over each head an avenging white Ghost!
All the young Martyrs they murdered by moonlight;
All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight,
Make their hearts reel
With a shudder, and kneel
To lay down their Arms and give all up for lost.
They tell the wild tales of him, gathered together,
Turn pale at his Shadow in midst of their speech;
Down he swoops on them, like Hawk on the heather,
Strikes home with sure aim, and upsoars beyond reach.
Or, he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking.
They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking,
As waves wild and white,
Driven mad with affright,
Are dashed into foam as they hide up the beach.
Watching o' nights in the cold, he remembers
The Homes of his love in their ashes laid low;
And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers,
To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow.
He has had torn from him all that was nearest;
He has seen murdered his Darlings the dearest;
With all this and more,
To the heart's crimson core
He kindles! and all flashes out on the Foe.
No peace, Garibaldi, till Italy, stronger,
Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene;
And meet them as Lovers may meet when no longer
The cold Corse of one that was dead lies between.
For this, God was with you when perils were round you;
For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drowned you;
Their Sword and their Shot
Have hindered you not,
And your Purpose crouched long for its pouncing unseen.
On, with our British hearts all beating true to you;
All keeping time to the march of the brave!
I would to God we might cut our way through to you,
Gallantly breasting the stormiest wave.
Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you,
Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you,
Stand by your side,
In his terrible pride,
Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save.
Long was the night of her kneeling; but surely
Shall Italy rise to her Queenliest height.
Many a time has the battle gone sorely,
To make the last triumph more signal and bright.
Her Foes shall be swept from her path like the stubble;
Now is their day of down-treading and trouble;
God tires of old Rome!
Venetia cries “Come!”
On, on, Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right!
1859.
